Blazing Trails
by tinedanzer
Summary: He dropped me. DROPPED me! And all I hear is what a nice guy he is, it was an accident, give him a chance. But if I want any peace in my new assignment at NEST... I'll have to let it go. Maybe it really was just a mistake. Maybe I CAN find allies here. Maybe I can find solace. Maybe he can learn how NOT to handle humans. A girl can hope, right? Tragic love story, Trailbreaker x OC
1. Chapter 1

**Greetings Earthlings and Aliens.**

I wrote this story with a partner a few years ago. Life happened, as it so often does, and we never finished it. The two of us don't speak anymore. I hope that she is still writing-the world is a much better place with her stories in it. I borrowed one of her characters-the one that drew me to her in the first place, her portrayal of Bluestreak. He holds a special place in my heart for leading me to the author kaydeeblu. Her stories are gripping and imaginative. I'm so glad I was gifted with the chance to share her life for a while. This story was co-written and edited by kaydeeblu. It's not finished. I don't know if I can finish it solo, or even if I should. It deserves to see the light day, and _she_ deserves most of the credit for it.

Word of warning: my writing mantra is, "there must be violence and carnage," while kaydeeblu's was, "somebody's gotta die!" This is a tragic love story.

Enjoy.

It was mid summer of 2009 when the U.S. Government scraped together a new mixed services unit and recruited people to fill up the available slots. Being a highly qualified female tactical aircraft maintenance technician—or as we call it in the Air Force, a crewchief—with a degree under my belt, I was a shoe-in. But a prestigious assignment like this one is highly competitive, and that doesn't leave room for many friends. Which was pretty evident at the moment. My assistant crewchief and I were the only creatures stirringon the Nevada desert heat.

"Hey Wash. Did you pin up the cockpit?" I called to the dark, skinny Senior Airman padding lightly across the wing of our jet.

"Yeah Sarge." Senior Airman Jordan "Wash" Washington, my assistant crewchief and only ally. He winked at me before jumping down from the wingtip. I winced at his landing—that would have _hurt_ me. "Smitty, let's do the forms inside. Th' heat's killer!" He was right. The temperature on this July evening was running 105 degrees farenheit. That was down from the afternoon's high.

Wash and I flew in that morning on a C-17. We had been good friends at Nellis Air Force Base, but here I was assigned as his supervisor. Ours had been the last stop to pick up personnel before reaching the highly secretive location, lovingly dubbed "Area 52" by the flight crew. The name caught on and the sarcastic alien reference was not lost on anyone. Breifing upon breifing had preceeded our transport. We were told we had to be _prepared_—what we would see here was unlike anything mankind had ever known before. So far, this looked like every other flightline I had ever been to on every other base. Even the desert wasn't new. We were surrounded by arid vacantness for days; the nearest town was twenty miles away. Grand solitude.

Mere hours into our first day here and Wash was already going stir-crazy. He stood nearby rubbing his palms.

"Told you to wear your gloves," I muttered, raising my covered hands with a smug wave.

Wash leaned close to the large, wheeled toolbox I was using as a desk to update our aircraft's forms. "Gloves are for the cold, Smitty." His face displayed a wide toothy grin. I smirked back.

A dry, hot breeze shimmered down the long cement ramp where all eight F-16 Fighting Falcon fighter jets sat. Red "Remove Before Flight" streamers teased out by the dust laden wind. It lashed our faces with desert grit and stung our eyes with searing heat. I turned toward the hangars at the other end of the ramp to shelter myself.

More of an all purpose training facility, the biggest hangar lay directly in front of me. That was where the aliens were supposed to be hiding. Our virgin eyes were shielded from the sight of them by the ominously closed doors and assumed soldiers lining the shadows. The rest of our unit had "put their birds to bed," as the expression goes—weapons all safety-pinned, streamers in place, and protective covers on. They'd passed us by without a word or an offer of help and surged off the flightline, headed towards their new dorm rooms. We would be getting a briefing early in the AM and then gradually be introduced to the aliens.

I let loose a long stream of breath. First day and the odds were already against me. Being the only female in the Eggressor Unit is awkward at best. The group atmosphere had been frigid when I boarded the C-17 bound for our highly classified base. We were part of a predominantly male team called NEST. Silly name, but the military was never one for clever acronyms. Creativity does not come in standard issue.

My gaze wandered to the side, drawn by the sight of a red striped, black Caddalac Escalade ponderously pulling up in front of a F-35 fighter jet in a desert camoflauge paint scheme. I remembered seeing the bigger aircraft taxi past us during all the chaos of "bedding down" our own jets and wondered why there was only one. Two was always the rule; _every_ pilot had a wingman. Maybe this was some kind of experimental jet—it's a highly secretive base after all. The truck came to a stop facing the two of us as we walked toward the hangars, but no one got out. _Don't blame them_, I menatally snorted, _It's frickin' hot out here. Enjoy that AC boys_. Beads of sweat evaporated from my brow as quickly as they formed and a bit of jealousy tinged my thoughts of Air Conditioning.

"Who's that, ya figure?" Wash was watching the black truck too.

"Dunno," I shrugged, gathering up the forms and securing the tool box drawers.

"That bird's not bedded," he pionted out. "Sup with that?"

Shaking my head, I said, "Let's go give 'em a hand, how 'bout? Make some new friends. Maybe."

"Sarcasm! Suits you," He nodded, pushing the toolbox in the direction of the F-35. When we reached the truck, nobody got out to greet us, the windows didn't even roll down. Stony silence. If I hadn't known better, it almost seemed as if the entire vehicle leaned away with an air of cautious observance. But that was a _silly_ notion.

Waving at the uncovered jet, I said, "No covers anywhere. That engine's gonna be so full of sand by morning." I clucked my tongue and continued, "Well... We can at least pin up the landing gear. You get that side, I'll get this one."

Wash ducked into a wheel well as I circled around the fuselage headed the other way. Nestled in one corner of the underbelly was a small white box that should have held the landing gear safety pins I was searching for. When I popped the lid open, the entire jet shuddered. I froze for a second, but decided the heat was playing tricks with my mind. From the other side of the fuselage, I heard Wash utter a startled "…_uhh_."

My tiny hand slipped into the box, finding nothing but air. A booming voice shouted, "**OUT! Get OUT of there!**"

"RUN!" I screeched. Wash was already in motion. He bolted from under the jet's shadow. I backed into the landing gear door, banged my head hard, and swiveled underneath it, scrambling out sideways. We both circled around to the lee side of the black truck.

Wash flattened himself against the Cadillac and I followed suit, both of us breathing hard. "_What the fuck?_" His attempt at a whisper agitated into a hoarse register. Unable to find my voice, I shook my head.

Then the same voice spoke again, a gentle pleading, "Hey. I didn't mean to scare you. Hey, you can come out, I won't hurt you. I promise. It's just… kinda rude to go poking around on somebody you don't even know."

I mouthed the words,"_What is that thing?_" and Wash gave me a wide-eyed shrug.

"Aw, come on out, little humans. I'm sorry I frightened you."

We exchanged a look. Wash hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the jet and mouthed, "_Alien_."

I answered with a nod.

The truck we sought refuge behind gave us a heavy nudge that nearly tossed me to my hands and knees. Spinning around I gaped as another disembodied voice joined the first. This one seemed rather amused. "I think you scared the slag out of them, Breakaway." It chuckled. I stumbled another step backwards, sliding behind Wash.

"I didn't mean to."

"Remember what Colonel Lennox said. They're not used to us yet. That's why we're all supposed to stay in our alt modes until tomorrow. Of course, breaking their audial receptors didn't help, I'm sure."

Wash stammered, "You're—you're the aliens."

"Oh look at that," the truck quipped. "It speaks."

"I'm not an it," Wash's bravado was coming back to him. "I was wondering where you guys were all hiding." The Senior Airman dragged a cocoa skinned hand along the paneling of the Cadallac. It shivered at his touch and leaned away. He glanced up at the windshield and back down to the hood where a large, red, squarish face was emblazoned. "Awesome."

"You like?" the truck preened.

"Yeah."

"What about you, femme?" Wash smiled at the truck. "You won't get her to talk. She's not good with new people." Catching himself in a cultural fuax pas, he snapped his fingers, "Oh! I'm Senior Airman Jordan Washington. But everybody just calls me Wash." Swinging a hand back toward me without taking his eyes off the truck, "That's my supervisor, Staff Sergeant Luccianna Smith. Smitty for short. Or sometimes Lucci, but only off duty." The last he added like a confided secret. I frowned at him. That was more information than I was willing to divulge just yet. "Lucci" was reserved for close friends, not new people. Or aliens. Whatever.

"Trailbreaker," the truck said. "That's Breakaway. We're new here too. Been here a few… what's the word…?"

"Months," the jet supplied.

"Yeah. Months." A pause, then, "So… why doesn't she speak?"

Wash grinned devilishly from the front of the truck. Squeezing my eyes closed, I awaited the humiliation. "She's shy," he snickered. My cheeks burned bright red. Time to exit stage left before Wash spills all my dark secrets. Once I was gone, he would talk about anything else; he only did this to tease me. It kept up appearances. We imparted a pretense of not-so-secret lovers to cover the fact that he played for the other team. Don't ask, don't tell. And don't let anyone on a highly sought after top secret assignment have any ammunition that would take you down. Competition can be a cruel bitch. Waving the forms at my counterpart, I pushed the toolbox back to the hangar, leaving Wash to chat with the aliens.

When the sounds of metal scraping metal and grinding gears told of some sort of transformation behind me, I peered over my shoulder. Stunned I stared at the distant forms. They both stood bipedal.

The jet was enormous. Maybe 25 feet tall. Wings folded over the back and the tail fins crested the shoulders. Bright Blue glowing eyes and an adorable little head peered out from within a segmented cockpit, the canopy hung over it like a hoodie. It put me in mind of a cross between an ewok and a gremlin before midnight wearing sweats. Even the jet's countenance was soft and fluffy despite the aggressive alternate mode of an F-35 fighter jet.

The Cadillac was only a few feet shorter than the jet. Black arms, hands, and red elbow joints sprouted from the broad black chest that was once the vehicle's hood and bumper. What appeared to be some sort of generator slash grenade launcher thing rested on the back and peeked over the shoulders. A black helm sported a silvery gray face with a wide, glowing, orange visor band instead of individual eyes. The thighs were silver, red knee guards covered the joints, black calves and that same bare metal colored feet with no segmentted toes like the jet.

They were incredible. It took my breath away. Literally. After a moment of gawking like a fool, the truck, Trailbreaker, caught me. One large black hand waved me to return, but I shook my head without a second thought and rushed to the hangar to lock up our tools. Maybe it was my imagination, but as I turned away, the corners of the alien's mouth tugged down. He _frowned_ at me. No, that had to be my mind succumbing to the desert heat. What I needed was a bottle of cold water and some time in the AC.

* * *

Civilians chuckle at the term "Oh dark thrity." It's actually something like: _Oh, my god it's **still** **dark** out_, and, by the way, report _thirty_ minutes prior to the briefing for roll call. Translated into civilain-ese, it usually comes at about four thirty in the morning. Breifings are at five.

We stood in the cool, dry air of the biggest hangar, surrounded by tall catwalks and narrow stairways, machines out of a Sci-Fi author's wildest imaginations, and many different vehicles—most of which were completely out of place in a military hangar. A sliver Corvette, a yellow Camaro, a red Ferarri 458, a Mercedes Benz E550, a yellow-green Hummer, a black GMC Topkick truck, a red and blue semi, and a few others in the back ground I couldn't quite see. And, of course, the F-35 fighter jet and red trimmed Cadallac Escalade.

Well, that explained the eccentric car collection—they must all be aliens. As if to answer the direction of my thoughts, Colonel Lennox began his very short briefing by introducing Optimus Prime. The semi rolled forward and metal plates slid over themselves, gears appeared and submerged, the entire form shifted and resorted itself into a thirty foot towering robotic form on two legs with a wizened blue framed, silvery face and glowing, blue eyes that took the measure of each individual as they passed over us. I glanced at the tall, broad shouldered Colonel Lennox, taking note of his close buzzed golden brown hair and matching brown eyes, in an effort to avoid cringing under the alien's scrutiny. He looked too young to be a Colonel, but the lines around his eyes spoke of the experiences that had brought him here.

Optimus Prime greeted us as the leader of the Autobots and gave a quick synopsis of their war, their purpose for opposing the Decepticons here on Earth—namely to save us all from enslavement and extinction—and welcomed us to the group. He then handed things over to his Chief Medical Officer, Ratchet, whom I quickly realized was not actually a doctor like I thought of one. He was more like a mechanic slash engineer slash IT guru. But I guess if you're a twenty foot tall sentient robot with a fantastical computer processor as a brain, that qualifies as a "doctor." Which begs the question,_ am I a medic too in their eyes_?

Ratchet explained that the aliens were as varied in personality as we were and they had all been cautioned on our frailties. We were warned to stay clear of the aliens' feet as they would be afraid to move if humans were too close. Understandable. I was rather afraid of _being_ too close for the same reasons. Each Autobot had a specific talent that leant to their position within their unit and heavily influenced their choice of alternate mode. They would not often be seen in bipedal form out in the open as their presence on Earth was so highly guarded. We could ask questions, but must expect questions to be asked in return. It was a learning process for all of us across the board, and we should try not to be offended by anything done or said by the aliens. There was much more, but my mind began to drift at that point.

Next up was the Weapons Officer, the black Topkick, Ironhide. He had a wry sense of humor. A bit of John Wayne meets Dirty Harry. He blustered a bit about the bots' capabilities in combat and emphasized that they were absolutely NOT to be sharing even the simplest of their technology with any of us—so don't even bother asking. He also stated that should we have any problems with any of the Cybertronians, we should run it up our own chain of command, or, barring that availability, come straight to him or Ratchet. Whatever the matter, it would be settled immediately. And then a great big spot light was shone on me as a pedastool rose to place me under a magnifying glass while a myriad of giant TV's broadcast my face from every angle around the room.

Okay, not really, but that's exactly what it felt like. I was standing somewhere near the middle of the crowd when the black truck stated, "I understand there is a femme medic among you." Washington elbowed my ribs while I tried to sink through the floor. Blue lights for eyes focused in on me. I swallowed hard, feeling the blood from my face pool in my feet.

Ratchet interjected, "I believe the humans refer to it as a woman, Ironhide."

The truck glanced at the medic, shrugged, and spoke directly to me, "There are not many human femmes here for us to socialize with." The Medical Officer stepped to front of the room, picking up the theme, "What he means," and here the black bot was given a small shove and a stern scowl making the other move aside, "is that we have not had much interaction with females of your species. From the research I have done, I understand that human females are treated in a different respect in regards to speech and physical contact. Very few of us here have had the opportunity to see a human female, such as yourself, in the… ah… _flesh_, as it were. We will do our best not to offend you, but we ask that you have patience as we learn and adjust to your presence." And then all eyes were on me, waiting… for God only knows what. I have never prayed so hard to suddenly be struck anemic so that I could just _pass the fuck out_.

From off to the side, amidst the throng of aliens disguised as vehicles, Trailbreaker piped up. "Um… she's… _shy_, Ratchet."

_Oh fuck my life!_ I buried my face in my hands and shoved both into Wash's back. I could feel his body tremble with stifled laughter. Metal shuffling sounds came from ahead where the Medical Officer grew impatient for a response and finally gave up. "Very well, then." Followed by the Weapons Officer's muttered, "She needs to get _over_ that."

Laughter rippled through humans and aliens alike—_at my expense_—and Colonel Lennox returned to the stage redirecting the breifing to safety concerns, cover stories, nearby townships, and areas to avoid. Wash pulled me around to his side, my face still pressed against his uniform shirt.

"Are they all still staring at me?" I whispered.

"Pretty much, yeah. But just the aliens."

"Great. Shoot me when this briefing is over?"

Chuckling, "You'll live." He lifted my face from hiding, smiling softly down at me, "Look at it this way, you're famous! Everyone of the aliens knows who you are now. All us guys are going to be clamoring for their attention, but_ not you. You_ will be fending them off with a ten foot pole."

"Not helping."

His smile broadened. "Could have been worse." Mischief crinckled the corners of his eyes. "They could have asked you to get up there and explain the differences between genders to 'further their research' or maybe clarify some very specific issues for them, biologically speaking."

"Oh, gods!" I swatted at his arm. From the front of the room, Colonel Lennox pointedly cleared his throat. We both straightened, facing forward, and the breifing went on.

* * *

Every squadron has a show bird; the one jet that is put on static display for parades, dignitary visits , and special occasions. We were completely off the public grid out here, but there would still be internal opportunities to show off our jets. There were always VIP visits.

Being a newly formed unit the official show bird had not yet been selected, the position was still up for grabs. This crossed my mind as the bucket of cool water sloshed against my leg, spilling onto the cement of the ramp, and immediately sizzling into a blurry mist. I adjusted my grip on the handle, while shuffling aircraft soap and scrub sponges in my other hand.

The briefings finally ended late in the morning, but already the day's heat was burning mirages into my retinas. Something about the desert sun was entirely too bright, as if we were under the light of different star altogether. Blinking furiously against the stinging onslaught, I wondered if adding an extra layer of black window tint to my sunglasses would help the situation. Worth a try.

Off in the distance, just beyond the row of F-16s a streak of red flashed across the runway and disappeared. The air around it rippled and warped until the colored object evaporated into nothingness. Maybe it wasn't the heat after all. I frowned and shook my head; I'd hoped to escape the presence of others—_all others_—after the humiliation of the briefings.

Thankfully, that CMO, Ratchet, hadn't tried to chase me down for more "research." Wash's parting words flittered through my mind, "Watch out for aliens. Being the only 'femme' here, you're in danger of being abducted as part of some ongoing social experiment." _Yeesh_. The whine of a high performance engine screaming at it's redline wafted faint across the shimmering desert thermal reflections and a bright red oval warped into existence before whipping around and vanishing again. Aliens. At least whoever it was had taken their game of hide and seek to the other end of the flightline. I could spot clean my jet in peace. The soothing exercise of wiping grease away and polishing shiny metals relaxed me. It centered my mind and granted precious solitude in which to just exist. And think.

Starting at the back of the plane, the aft, I began to work my way forward, wiping, scrubbing, rinsing. Just like the Karate Kid, "wax on, wax off." A smile tugged at my lips over the silly internal joke. When I reached the main landing gear, I pulled out a lube gun and began greasing up the joints in the white scissored bars that locked the gear into a fully down position.

The strains of racing engines kept surging around me from far off as I worked. They came closer and closer until they passed by in zips of Doppler affected sound before waning again. Apparently I wasn't the only one that found the midday desert solitude enticing. Crouching to reach the axle joints, I had a clear view under the fuselage of my jet of the fuzzy creatures frolicking on the other end of the tarmac. Heat radiation was distorting their forms in my vision. Two black smudges and a green one had joined the intermittently vanishing red smear.

The squeal of tires heralded a splash of silver that glided in circles between the others. An opaque canopy burst to life over one of the black smudges and the other one transformed, slamming a massive fist onto the concrete and narrowly missing the silver smear as it came around. I smiled at the concussive echoes that washed over me; I would have been annoyed too. There was a series of low decibel sounds that must have been an ensuing argument in their native language. The air around the red smear rippled heralding it's disappearance and the silver smear spun away again, chasing it's tail into the desert oblivion.

Turning back to my work, I realized that, had I been anywhere else, my uniform would be soaked through with sweat by now. The locals referred to the arid desert's thermal affects as a "dry heat." What that amounts to is all the water evaporates off your skin leaving behind the accompanying salt and minerals in an itchy, white crust. I knew I should return to the hangar soon and get some water to drink, no telling how much I'd been sweating if it dried off as fast as it came out. Already I was feeling the lazy drag of heat exhaustion. Wailing engines ripped through the stifling atmosphere; the aliens were playing nearby. I gathered my supplies, deciding to finish the other side tomorrow. No sense in putting myself in a coma over a potential accolade.

"Staff Sergeant Luccianna Smith."

_Wham_! I jumped straight up inside the wheel well, smacking my head against the landing gear door behind me. Curses streamed from my mouth as I craned my head around the offending door, rubbing the knot on my skull, "God _DAMN_—that fucking hurt! Son of a mother fucking bitch!"

"Your assimilation here will be without difficulty."

"Whaaat?" Was I about to be abducted? What did she mean by assimilation? _Was_ that a she? Before me stood three ten foot tall robots, each identical in all but color, each balanced on a singular motorcycle wheel instead of bipedal legs. Green and Hot Pink were shoulder to shoulder, blue eyes staring at me with their heads cocked, while Blue was positioned directly in front of them, blue eyes narrowed and frowning at me.

Blue spoke, waving one hand in reference to the two behind her, "We are Arcee. We have been requisitioned to… '_relate_' to you. Female to female."

I blinked several times. _Must have hit my head harder than I thought_.

Moving out of the wheel well, I kept to the shade under the jet's wing. Green Arcee rolled forward, handing me an icy bottle of water, then moved back into position behind Blue. Glancing down at the gift in my hand I noted it's deliciously cold feel against my scorched skin. "Thanks," I murmured. All three Arcees stared at me; I shifted my weight from foot to foot. She'd been ordered to "relate" to me? My gaze dropped to the ground between us. Wash's warning in jest about social experiments came back to me.

"So…" squinting up at the triune alien, "the males can't figure out the females in your species either?"

"Affirmative." I smiled at her.

"Maleness must be universal."

"Very much." She returned the smile with all three faces.

Swinging my arms front to back, I glanced around at the dusty landscape surrounding the flight line. I felt like a bug pinned to a board and put on display. Blue rolled a few inches on her wheel. Green and Pink exchanged a blank look.

"Okay. So…" My voice was quiet and timid.

Green whistled low.

Pink stared at the ground.

Blue muttered, "Yeah."

Flashing a toothy grin, I cracked open the water and gulped it down. She waited while I gathered my supplies, in a silent, awkward stance, three sets of arms akimbo, eyes ever watchful. Blue and Green then transformed in quick succession.

The Pink one hesitated, her head tilted to one side, "If you need a female to… 'relate' to…"

I snickered with an agreeable nod.

One corner of her thin mouth twitched upward into a playful smirk. She transformed and zipped off to join the other two.

Cadence calls drifted through the heat from further down. A squad of men were running in formation. Glancing over at them, my attention was caught by the aliens gallivanting down the runway. The three trucks carried a ponderous pace in comparison to their sports car counterparts. Red and silver vehicles, joined by a yellow newcomer, streaked toward the hangar in a dangerous game of tag. The line of trucks moved to the side in a hopeless effort to avoid becoming obstacles in the others' play.

Red aimed straight at the squad of men, vanishing with a wicked warp of visual light not more than fifty yards from them. Silver increased his speed, transformed in a flash of shining metals, flipped through the air, and landed in his corvette mode without missing a beat. The gray shirted men all crouched along the cement, heads swiveling to follow the acrobatic display. The soldiers then scattered at the sound of Yellow's tire screeching, sideways slide. The Camaro halted facing a few degrees off from exactly opposite the direction he had been traveling in. He fishtailed, whipped around and launched after Silver. No sooner had he passed by, but Red reappeared right next to the men picking themselves up off the ground. More than a few pebbles were thrown in his direction, but he paid them no attention, careening after his cohorts.

Shaking my head at the reckless display, I tried to resumed my trek to the comforts of the Air Conditioned Hangar, only to pull up sharp. Directly in front of me, all three trucks crossed the ramp to the desert wilds beyond. The big black Topkick, Ironhide led, red trimmed Trailbreaker followed, with a green Oshkosh Defense Medium Tactical Vehicle taking the rear. Ironhide grumbled that I should watch where I was going as he sauntered by, Trailbreaker gave me a cheery, _coming through_, and Hound chirped, "Pardon us Ma'am. Heavy Metal takes a while to haul around."

I chuckled at the green machine's quip but my attention was captured by the striking contrast of red pin striping down the sides of the glossy black Cadillac. Catching myself staring, I dropped my gaze to the ground, immediately steeling another quick peek at the friendly Autobot. If a truck could preen while doing nothing more than rolling forward, I was certain he was doing just that. The supplies dropped from my hand as I quickly covered my snickering smile.

A ripple of air announced the red Ferrari's fly by, and hot on his heels, the silver corvette slipped into donuts nearby. "Somebody's got an admirer!" he singsonged. My cheeks burned bright. As the trickster swung sideways into full throttle, a deep metallic pulsing sound bounded around me. I wasn't sure whether he had been commenting on my ogling of the truck or the truck's appreciation of said ogling, but his laughter made clear he'd gotten the reaction aimed for.

* * *

Four thirty in the morning. Again. Wash and I had worked out a schedule where I worked the day shift and he came in on the swing shift. Swings is traditionally a maintenance heavy shift and there would be plenty of training opportunities for him. Day shift is usually slower. I was intent on studying for promotion to Technical Sergeant. So it all worked out.

Mornings in the desert are deceptively cool, and I was thoroughly enjoying my walk from dorm to hangar. My quarters were in the building furthest back, which led to my weaving between maintenance buildings and around the two large Hardened Aircraft Shelters, known as a HAS, that housed NEST's C-17s. In between the two HAS's was a twenty by twenty square of grass with a solitary tree planted in the center. A singular bench sat under the expansive branches with a plaque on the backrest. Curiosity drove me to it.

"Jazz Park.

Dedicated in memory of the indomitable Autobot Second In Command, First Officer Jazz.

Mission City.

2008.

May your spark eternally light our way."

The aliens lost one of their own here on Earth? And one of such high rank? This put things in a new light for me. It brought a sobering sense of comradeship. Made them feel more… real? _Human_. They had suffered losses fighting for us. I felt an indebtedness to this Autobot Jazz that I had never met. Also a sadness that I had never had the chance to know him and could not carry his memory forward. Snapping my crispest salute to the plaque in his honor, I wondered at who he had been and felt the pang of a soldier lost. No matter the war, or the species, it was always tragic to lose a warrior.

"Rest In Peace, Jazz," I whispered, dropping my salute and moving on toward the hangars.

* * *

The jets took off and landed on schedule, completing their orientation flights and returning with minimal maintenance requirements. Tomorrow would start the real training exercises, but for now, it was nice to end the day early and with little effort. I wiped the grime off my bird and then pushed my tool box to the hangar feeling eager to get home and finish unpacking my meager belongings. With such a mobile lifestyle, I kept my worldly possessions to a limited few. My room could use some fluffy bath rugs and a new comforter for the bed, though. There was a small BX, on base, the military equivalent of a Wal-Mart, and my mind began wandering through happy thoughts of shopping in the next hour. Thus distracted by my own musings, I entered the main hangar.

A long line of Army soldiers stretched above me on one of the catwalks. In rapid succession man after man took off at a full run down the catwalk, leaping off the end with a whoop. They sailed through the air for a second striking various poses before a brilliant light bubble would rush over them, slowing their decent to the ground. Alongside the catwalk stood Trailbreaker. Appearing for all the world like a gunslinger the mech threw force field bubbles from a hole in the center of each palm. All banter halted when an anonymous voice decried my presence with, "Ice Queen alert!"

Nice. The black and red mech did a double take at me before frowning at the soldiers. I pretended not to hear the insult. To my surprise, the Autobot turned and cheerfully chirped, "Hey, Sergeant Smith. Want a turn?"

I shook my head, not bothering to look up at him. Height is not my friend.

This, apparently, wasn't an acceptable answer. "Aw, come on! I won't drop ya. It's fun!"

Another head shake.

"The guys are enjoying it."

_Because that makes all the difference_. I rolled my eyes and let out a sigh. He was gearing up for a more drastic persuasion. Bracing for it, I felt my shoulders tense.

"I promise it's fun," he wheedled. "Here! I'll show you." Before I could open my mouth to protest, a burst of light encased me in an iridescent bubble. Suddenly airborne, I stared in horror at the receding safety of the floor. Each hand and foot slammed against the curved walls of my floating prison to keep myself firmly in place. My rapid breathing echoed inside the force field and sound from outside carried that underwater distortion to it. As I rose painfully higher, my heart lurched inside my chest and my whole body slipped forward, rotating the bubble until I was upside down. Trailbreaker brought me bodily even with his own head-which was now the wrong way up.

I screamed.

The grin fell from his face plates, replaced by confused panic.

From across the hangar, and through the sound distortion, I could hear Ratchet bellowing. Either he spoke in Cybertronian or the force field just warped his words that much. Trailbreaker startled out of his concentration. The bubble around me popped. Air rushed passed. My hair lifted back and streamed behind me as I plummeted. Another scream ripped from my lungs.

The floor came at me with a mind boggling speed. It made no sense to me. I had been on the floor, perfectly safe, only seconds ago, and now I was about to splatter head first across the cement like a broken egg. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the yellow-green medic lunge, but he was too far away. Black hands fumbled after me, _and missed_, knocking me into a sickening head over heels spin. I wanted so badly to close my watering eyes, but the horror of my looming death kept them pinned open against my will. Bright yellow digits closed around my waist, bringing my decent to a gentle halt and setting me—right side up—on the ground. I clutched at the hand that held me, my legs not taking my weight at first. Swallowing hard against the waves of nausea, I looked up into a pair of bright blue optics nestled in a yellow rimmed silvery face. Bumblebee let out a low whirring whistle. I took that as a question, _are you okay_? I nodded, jerky and wide-eyed. The fingers uncurled, releasing me. I stumbled a few steps. Then the full impact of what just happened hit me. My eyes narrowed at the floor. My fists clenched. My jaw tightened. My teeth ground.

A hush fell over the entire hangar. You could have heard a pin drop as I radiated bloody fury. Whipping a fierce glare up to meet Trailbreaker's frantic gape, I stomped over to the mech's feet. "What. The. Fuck." I hissed through my teeth. "I said no!" My volume picked up with each word, "What gives you the right to just… just… _pick me up_ like that?!"

Giving into the overwhelming urge, I began punctuating the syllables with a kick of my steel toed boot. The bot leaned away, but, true to the briefing, didn't dare move his feet. "_How_ could you think that was a good idea?! I AM NOT A TOY, _you inconsiderate, over reaching, excessively deranged, spare parts rejected, disaster zone quarantined, mechanized_ PENCIL SHARPENER!" I had to stop there. My toes hurt. Letting out a screech of rage, I whirled on the balls of my feet and raced out the side door, three gawking mechs and a several Army soldiers staring after me in stunned silence.

The blinding desert sunlight washed over me like visual bleach. Tears stung at my eyes and I couldn't be sure if it was the drastic change in brightness or anger mixed with fear at the manhandling I'd just received. I leaned back against the metal siding of the hangar scrubbing my hands over my face. Heat soaked through my uniform shirt searing into my back, but I had no intention of moving. With a metallic creak, the door next to me opened; I didn't bother to see who'd been sent on a welfare check.

"Sergeant Smith, is it?"

I peered through my fingers at Colonel Lennox. Jumping off the wall and into the position of attention, I snapped a salute. "Yes, sir!"

He returned the salute, "At ease, Sergeant." He glanced around, squinting in the late afternoon glare. Cocking his head to one side, he drew a deep breath. "Trailbreaker is…" He shifted his weight, searching for the right words. "…enthusiastically friendly. He didn't mean any harm—I'm not belittling what you just went through, but he hasn't been around humans for very long and…" Deep sigh. "He was just trying to impress you. He wouldn't have dropped you—"

I opened my mouth to protest that, but the Colonel held up a hand, halting my statement of the obvious.

"It takes a lot of concentration to project those force fields. When Ratchet yelled at him, it broke his concentration." Lennox looked down at his feet, then peered up at me through his brows. "If Autobots could cry, he'd be balling his optics out right now." He smirked. "He's horrified at what happened."

I stared impassively at the Colonel, my face a carefully schooled blank.

"He asked me to tell you how sorry he is."

I shook my head. I didn't care. He dropped me.

Lennox straightened up, moving back into CO mode. "Look, we all have to work together here. I understand if you want to be reassigned after this. But I do ask that you give it some time before you make that decision. They're a lot like us, but they're still aliens. This assignment isn't for everyone. No one will think any less of you if you back out."

My eyes narrowed. That was low. He knew I _couldn't_ leave now. I'd be forever branded the little girl that got scared and ran. Heaving an explosive breath, I replied, "I'm not going anywhere, sir. I'm not a quitter."

He smiled. "That's what I was hoping to hear. Welcome aboard, Sergeant Smith." He clapped a hand on my upper arm and returned to the hangar. As soon as he was gone, I muttered to myself, "That doesn't mean Trailbreaker's off the hook, though."


	2. Chapter 2

The heat was finally beginning to ebb on my homeward walk, but that didn't amount to much coming off a high of 108. My salt caked uniform stuck to me, swishing with my steady plod as I gingerly held the phone in my hand. Wash had to check up on me as soon as he'd heard.

"So flying lessons by Autobot. How does that work?"

"Funny. I don't recall the flying part. There was only falling."

"What comes down had to go up first."

"No. No, what came down didn't need to go up _at all._"

"I'm sensing hostility."

"Mm." I shifted the phone to my other ear, startled by a beep on the line.

"Sounds like you got a text. Did you give out your number and forget to tell me? Hang on, let me alert the Guinness book of World Records!"

"Har, har."

_Beep. Beep._

"Sounds urgent. Who is it?"

"No idea. Hold on." Pulling the phone away from my ear, I squinted against the still bright desert sun. What I saw nearly made me throw the phone into a wall.

Trailbreaker: I'm REALLY REALLY REALLY sorry.

"Oh my fucking gawds," I breathed.

"What? Who is it? _Tell_ me!"

"Wash. Did you give that mech my number?"

"No. Why would I do that? Ooooh! They're walking super computers, Lucci. You think hacking a cell phone is anything more than child's play to them?"

_Beep._

Trailbreaker: REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY REALLY sorry.

"What is he saying?"

"He's sorry. With a lot of really's."

"Aw."

"Shut-up."

Me: Wrong number.

_Beep._

Trailbreaker: Staff Sergeant Smith, I can see you through the camera on the phone.

I've never dropped anything so fast in my life. I let out a squeal and on impulse stomped on the phone until it sparked. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I hustled toward home as fast as I could. Mentally cursing myself for breaking my only hand held means of communication. It would cost an arm and a leg to replace. Just as I reached the building I was housed in, a royal blue Dodge Viper pulled up onto the sidewalk blocking my path. The door opened and Wash jumped out.

Turning back to the car, he said, "Thanks, Bluestreak." Then he rounded on me. "What the hell did you do?"

"What?" I was staring at the car. Bluestreak, he said. Another mech? Were they multiplying? Rabbits came to mind.

"I'm talking to you, you get a text from Trailbreaker, and then suddenly there's all this crunching noise and the line goes dead. I thought you somehow managed to get run over!"

I smirked. "Well, the way _today_ has been going…"

A metallic voice came from the still open door of the blue Viper, "I can't imagine that you'd get run over on this base. Unless it was one of the humans driving an actual car. Maybe not a car, but a truck. They probably couldn't see you if it was a truck. Because you are kinda short. Even for a human. But one of _us_ would never run you over. Despite what you might think after… you know… what happened."

"Wow." I shook my head. _Bluestreak._ "I thought it was the color."

Wash chuckled. "Nope. I've met my verbal match!"

"God help me."

"I don't understand," Bluestreak said.

Wash turned back to the Autobot, "She thinks we talk way too much."

"Oh." The dejection in his voice was nearly heart wrenching. "I see."

I smacked the Senior Airman's arm, "You're mean!" He made a silly face at me. "Bluestreak? Is that your name?"

"Yes."

"I'm not a very talkative person. Wash teases me about that by talking too much. He does it on purpose. He will just ramble on and on about nothing at all until I can't stand the sound of his voice anymore. That in no way, reflects on you. Wash is an ass. Just so you know." I shot my human friend a sideways grin.

"I'm hurt. You cut me real deep just now," Wash returned, clutching at his chest and fake stumbling backwards.

Bluestreak chuckled. "I try not to talk too much. Sometimes I just do. You can tell me to shut up if I annoy you. It's okay. Everybody does."

_Bleeding hearts, unite!_ "I'm sure whatever you have to say would be very interesting." This was going to land me in a world of hurt, judging by Wash's quickly elevating eyebrows, but I pressed on. He was just too cute, I couldn't resist. "You are an alien, after all."

"You really think so?"

"I love to travel," I offered. "I'll bet you've got some interesting tales to tell about the places you've been to. Or even just your own planet. But right now, I need to get out of this nasty uniform and into a cool shower." Waving Wash off, I continued, "Wash needs to get back to work; he's still on duty, you know. But I'll catch you later, okay?"

"Okay!" The Viper chirped.

Wash climbed back into the car, giggling, and shamelessly wagged a finger at me. The one raised eyebrow above his wide grin said it all. Next time I see this mech I will be in for a windstorm of a conversation. I wasn't lying when I'd said I wanted to hear about his travels, though. And what kind of planet could spawn a race of metal beings? It certainly threw Darwinism on its ear.

**Chapter 2**

Wiping down my jet has always been relaxing for me. A time to just exist in peace and quiet. Nobody else likes cleaning the jets, so I get left alone. It makes the arduous task rather appealing. I can think, straighten out the jumbled thoughts in my head. It's a therapeutic release. But today, I found myself scrubbing furiously at stains I knew would never come out of the paint in an effort to vent some of my frustration. _He picked me up_! Plucked me off the ground like so much dead weight and tossed me around in a force field. I'm not a rag doll for the Cybertronians to play with whenever the mood strikes. What gave him the right?!

A snarl escaped my throat as I dug my scrub sponge deeper into the aircraft's paint.

"_Please_ stop!" The voice from behind jerked me out of my angry internal diatribe. "That's hurting _me_! I'm feeling sympathy pains, and _it's_ not even alive."

I whirled around, eyes wide, to find an F-35 fighter jet parked on the ramp next to the F-16 I was ruthlessly rubbing down. Heaving a sigh, I tossed the sponge into the bucket. "Breakaway. You startled me."

"Well, you were _frightening_ me. I think we're even."

Chuckling, I said, "Sorry. I got a little carried away. This usually relaxes me." I shook my head, trying to dislodge the angry turmoil inside.

The jet shuddered, "What happens when you're _really_ mad? Is there any paint left?"

That made me giggle. "When I'm really mad, I go for a run. But it's entirely too hot out here and I don't like going to the gym. Too many people."

"You're still upset about yesterday."

I frowned at the disguised mech, did everyone know? _Of course_, they did. Fastest way to get word out on a military base is to want it kept a secret. Standing at the edge of the F-16's shadow I nodded my head, crossing my arms over my chest.

The jet continued, "You've probably heard this a thousand times by now, but… He really didn't mean to hurt you. Ratchet startled him. It broke his concentration and his force fields are hard to maintain."

Shifting my weight to one leg, I leaned against my tool box, the frown deepening on my face. The internal debate raged on. This mech was intent on purporting his benevolence on behalf of his fellow Cybertronian. I owed him no explanation to my anger over the situation, but I would not likely get any peace unless I made some things clear. My eyes closed and a deep breath drawn braced me for the discomfort of divulging personal information that could very well come back to bite me, I said in a firm tone, "Breakaway. He picked me up after I told him no. He lifted me into the air with no safety restraints and then he _dropped_ me. It was reckless, careless, and thoughtless. But that's not all. Do you know what a phobia is?"

"Sure. It's a fear of something that goes beyond all reason."

"Yeah, something like that." And here's the part that will undoubtedly haunt me in future. "I'm terrified of heights."

"Heights?" He paused, mulling that over. That had to be absurd to a fighter jet. "_Oh_. I guess for someone as tiny as you are, optic level would be rather high."

I didn't answer. I didn't need to.

"That must have been pretty traumatic for you then. I can imagine… suddenly facing you worst fear when you didn't even have a chance to prepare for it…"

At that moment it occurred to me how very weak my argument must sound to a fierce, intergalactic warrior. He faced death on a regular basis and here I am, getting bent out of shape over this one incident. What kind of "warrior" did that make me? _No,_ I told myself, _it's not just about my fears. There's a trust issue here too. Trailbreaker is supposed to be on _our _side. We don't _kill _our own!_ I shrugged. "I just need time to process it, I guess."

"You may not want to hear this, but Trailbreaker is a good mech. He's really torn up over this whole thing. He's one of the nicest mech's I know."

Ignoring that, I countered, "What I don't get, is why he thought it was okay to pick me up in the first place?"

"He was trying to make friends with you."

I snorted. Fat chance of _that _ever happening_._ "So he picked me up? How does that kind of personal intrusion say, 'Let's be friends?'"

"Well, when you put it that way…"

"Let me ask you this: You guys all come in different sizes. Are there any that are much, much bigger than you? Like someone that you don't even come up to their knees?"

"Yeah. The Gestalt teams when they combine. And the Supremes."

"The wha—"I waved my hand cutting myself off. "Nevermind. Do they regularly pick you guys up and toss you around?"

"No. Well, sometimes in battle. If the situation calls for it."

"And if it doesn't?"

"That would be rude."

"Exactly. So why would it be any different here on Earth? Why isn't it rude to pick up a human?"

"Truthfully? The Army soldiers are often asking us for rides on our shoulders and to be lifted into high positions. When you walked into the hangar yesterday, they were playing a game of 'catch' with Trailbreaker. Ratchet wasn't yelling at him for picking you up. He had taken some tools from the medbay and didn't put them back."

Stunned was an understatement for what I was feeling at that very moment. My mouth hung open, eyes bulging at Breakaway's statement. All this time I'd thought the medic berated my assailant on my behalf, turns out, no one thought anything of it _till he dropped me_! Nodding slowly, I grabbed the handles of my tool box and began pushing it toward the main hangar. "That explains a lot, Breakaway. Thank you." As an afterthought, I added, "In future, just so everyone knows, I don't appreciate being handled like that."

"I'll pass it on." With a touch of urgency to his voice, he added, "Hey. Trailbreaker really is a good mech. Try to find it in your spark to give him another chance. Okay?"

I huffed and shot him a glare over my shoulder. Not anytime soon, buddy_._

As I walked along, a sliver corvette pulled up keeping pace beside me. I glanced at him, curious, but he said nothing. A few paces later, I quirked an eyebrow at him. Still nothing, though he never waivered from my side. This was beginning to get annoying. Trying to ignore the flashy car, I gave the toolbox a mighty shove and picked up some speed. The engine rumbled with what sounded like a little chuckle, but the corvette never lost his place at my side. So I stopped and faced him. And waited. Nothing. _Why?_ I whined internally.

Forced to speak first, I folded my arms over my chest and glared at the errant mech. This must be another Trailbreaker sympathizer. "Look. I've already heard what a 'great guy' he is and how I should 'give him a second chance.' And 'it was an accident.' And 'he's so broke up' over it. And… and… _Whatever._ I'm sick of hearing about what happened yesterday, okay? I had to _live_ it. I'd rather not _think_ about it anymore!"

"You should have seen the look on your face."

Well, I wasn't expecting _that_. "What?" I couldn't have masked the surprise on my face to save my life.

"I'd have been hard pressed to pulled off a prank like that."

"A… _prank._"

"Yeah. Oh, what he did was an accident, he's not that clever. But it was truly awesome. I recorded it so I can play it over and over when I'm bored."

"You're deranged. You know that, right?" I turned halfway back to the hangar, wanting to make a getaway but rooted to the spot like watching a train wreck. He's clearly _not_ a Trailbreaker sympathizer, and he's definitely sick in the head.

"I'm not deranged. I'm just very good at what I do." If a car could shrug, that's what it would have to be called. He rolled backwards a few inches. "So. You're this new femme everyone's talking about."

This was his idea of an introduction? Okay, I'll bite. "Sergeant Smith." Out of habit, and because this really strange conversation was throwing me off, I extended my hand. And then stared at my own stupidity.

"You know I'm not gonna touch that, right?" The tease in his tone made my cheeks flush bright. I dropped my hand, hugging it tight to my body and looking back down the ramp at the hangar, longing to escape. The mech went on, "Sideswipe."

"Sideswipe," I repeated. "Nice to meet you. I have to put my tools away." With renewed vigor, I shoved my toolbox forward, answering the call of safe haven ahead.

"Would you like to get him back?"

"Huh?" My mind was totally focused on reaching the hangar. This did not make sense to me, getting someone back had nothing to do with _reaching the hangar_. What on Earth was this guy going on about?

Enunciating carefully—which pulled an irritated sneer across my lips—he said, "Would. You. Like. To. Get. Him. Back? Is it easier if I spell this out for you? Maybe another Earth language would make more sense?"

Okay. I hate this guy already. "_No_! I don't—" Wait a minute. Is he offering me revenge? Stopping mid-stride I rounded on the mech, "What do you mean, 'get him back?'"

"For dropping you. You really are thick."

"Sideswipe-!" I caught myself. No berating the sixteen foot killing machine.

But, would it be worth it to seek revenge on an Autobot that the whole base—present company excluded—was rooting for? And if this character in front of me is such a wiseass on first meeting me, how much of what he proposes can I trust to not back fire in my face? "What's in it for you?"

"Nothing."

_Liar._ My eyes narrowed into a disbelieving glare my head turning a tad to the side as though sizing up the breadth and depth of the deception. "I'm to understand that you are offering to help me get revenge for being dropped, but you get nothing out of it in return? _Somehow_, that doesn't fit."

"I just want to be along for the ride," he purred.

He's instigating. I shook my head. This reeked of a bad idea. _Tempting_. But Sideswipe had a trust-me-no-further-than-you-can-throw-me vibe to him. "I… I'll think about it." I needed to find out more about this Autobot before I agreed to anything.

"Whatever. Your loss." The Vette's engine roared as he spun out sideways, whipped into a 180 and raced down the ramp toward the runway.

When I entered the blessed hangar, Wash was waiting on me. Through gritted teeth I griped, "Swear to god, if I hear one more word about _yesterday…_!"

With a big grin, he said, "Oh, didn't you know? There was this chick got dropped by an Autobot. Strangest thing…" I swatted his arm. Rubbing the offended appendage, he added, "You gotta stop hitting me there. It's bad luck. Gonna make those stripes stick permanently and then I'll never make Staff Sergeant."

I smirked, "The rate you're going, you'll be lucky to make your next birthday!"

"Aww," he grabbed my head, giving me a nuggie and pulling half my hair out of my ponytail. Continuing in a slurry baby voice, "There's the Smitty I know and love!"

I shoved him a way, "Get off!"

"_Sure_," he chirped with a duplicitous tone.

"Are—are you two a couple? Like Sam and Mikaela?" The blue mech had crept up behind Wash without being seen. Which really says something, since he stands sixteen feet tall, royal blue all over, silvery face, massive white guns mounted behind each shoulder, door wings reminiscent of Bumblebee balancing out his movements and spread wide from his upper back.

"Bluestreak!" I was more surprised and embarrassed than happy to see him. My hair was sticking out at all angles. Pulling the band from my head, I began finger combing it back into submission. Wash was staring at me, brows raised, eyes wide, both lips sucked into his mouth expectantly. "What?" I paused in my ministrations eyeing the odd expression on his face.

In a very quiet tone he repeated the bot's question, "_Are_ we a couple?"

"No," I smirked, rolling my eyes. "We're just really good friends. We've known each other a long time. Been through a lot together."

"Oh. Okay," Bluestreak nodded his head. "Sam and Mikaela are the only human couple I've really seen. Well, Colonel Lennox has a mate, too, but I haven't met her yet. She doesn't come to the base very often. But we have to do welfare checks on the Witwickys twice every Earth month and we all take turns going out there to visit with them and Bumblebee. You haven't been here long enough to do a welfare check yet; maybe you can go next time. The Witwickys are very nice. Mikaela's parental units are a bit strange though. They don't know about us. Mikaela's father was just recently released from a human prison. Oh—I probably shouldn't have said anything about that. Mikaela doesn't like to talk about it. I wonder why that is? Is she embarrassed by the actions of her parental unit? Does she feel that his actions reflect upon her? Is that how human society works?"

"Whoa! Whoa! Bluestreak!" I held my hands up to stop the onslaught. "I can't keep up. One question at a time, please."

He gave me a sheepish grin, scuffing one large blue foot on the cement beneath him. "Sorry. I can really get carried away."

I did a double take at Wash. The Senior Airman was leaning over the toolbox both hands clamped firmly across his mouth, shoulders shaking violently, eyes watering. His head was down so the mech couldn't see his face.

"What is he doing?" My cohort had caught the blue Viper's attention as well.

Thumping him on the head, I said, "Wash is being an ass. I told you about that yesterday. He's an ass. This is him," I sent second thump to his skull, "being his ass-y self." Wash snorted loudly, collapsing over the box and laughing silently.

"Is he okay?"

"Nope. He's terminal." I shot Bluestreak a sly grin. "Watch this. I can sober him up in one second flat." The bot leaned in, optics focused with intensity. "Wash. Jet's all yours. Hydraulic filter is popped. Have fun with that."

The thin Airman straightened immediately, all humor dropped from his face. "What?"

"Have fun!" I called over my shoulder. "Come on, Bluestreak. He's got work to do."

Wash's glare burned into my back, "I'm not qualified for the ops checks on a hydraulic filter! Where are you going? You're gonna make me beg for help? That's a two man job! You _know_ that! _Hours_ of work! _Smitty_!"

Digging a quarter out of my pocket I tossed it to him as I pranced away with the blue mech. "Call someone who cares, Wash!"

"Son of a bitch!" He kicked the toolbox.

Bluestreak peered down at me, "He didn't like that."

"That's what he gets for being a jerk to you, big guy."

"I didn't think he was being a jerk. He seemed like he was malfunctioning, though. How was that being a jerk?"

"He was laughing at you." I waved a hand dismissively, "Nevermind that. He was being a jerk to me too."

"Oh. Um… Sergeant Smith?" Bluestreak had such an earnest look in his bright blue optics. How did he manage to pull off those puppy dog eyes with that all metal face?

"Yeah, Bluestreak?"

"I'm not keeping you from anything, am I?"

"Well… I need to get over to the BX to buy a new cell phone, but right now I'm getting a bit hungry. I think I'm gonna go grab a bite from the flightline kitchen."

He looked a bit dejected, his door wings sagging, "Okay. I'm sorry to bother you."

I deflated. "You are anything _but_ a bother, Bluestreak." Visibly brightening at that, his door wings inched upward while I continued, "It's been a rough day and I need some me time to cool off. Okay? I'll catch up to you another time." The blue mech's optics narrowed slightly, full of concern, his head cocked to the side while he studied me. I looked away, feeling guilty for running him off.

He was silent for a few seconds, which was unnerving coming from the chattiest creature I had ever met. When I glanced up, he was staring at the floor, hands clasped behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "I… I guess I'll go, then." He nodded to himself and departed, the bounce missing from his step. I slapped one palm over my face. Chatty people tend to take my need to be alone as a rejection. Apparently that transcends species. Resolving that later I would find time to make friends with the charismatic blue Autobot, I changed course, heading for the flightline kitchen and some food.

As soon as I had collected my pre-packaged meal, affectionately dubbed, "box nasty," I was greeted by the sight of the Autobot's Chief Medical Officer, Ratchet, carefully stepping around throngs of humans. He was on a mission and, if his intent focus on me was any indication, I was about to have a large part in it—off duty or not. I scanned the area quickly looking for cover, and, finding none, stared at the impending assignment headed my way. He was alternately watching the humans at his feet and checking my location as he tapped at a large datapad in his hands.

Stopping about twenty feet from me, he skimmed over the device, "Sergeant Luccianna Smith?"

I stared at the box in my hands, picking at the corner. "Yes?" He peered at me over the pad. It was at this point it finally occurred to me that despite being an alien, he was in fact a _high ranking officer_. And if we extend U.S. military courtesies to militaries of foreign countries, then it follows that we should do the same for those from another planet. I stood straighter and reasserted my response more appropriately, "Yes, sir?"

He gave the barest of a nod—I guessed that was approval—and checked his data again. "I have reviewed your personnel file. You have extensive training on aircraft brakes. Would you be opposed to assisting Breakaway in some minor maintenance of his alt mode?"

Nearly swallowing my tongue, I choked on my own saliva, coughed twice and stared up at the yellow-green giant. He was waiting for an answer and, judging by the steadily increasing frown, waiting was not something he was wont to do. "What—what could I …?" I stammered, my thoughts clamoring to get out and form a protest. "I mean…" Searching the floor for words to speak, I settled for fixing my gaze on the big mech's feet. "I'm just an aircraft mechanic. And I've never worked an F-35. And humans aren't allowed around any of your tech." Finally grasping a coup de gras, I lifted my gaze to meet his blue optics, "Wouldn't I just be in the way?"

He dropped his hands to his sides, a small smirk playing across his mouth, "You would not be handling any of our 'tech.' You would simply assist Breakaway in trouble shooting a glitch in his alternate mode. I have already made most of the necessary adjustments. Really, all that remains is to ensure the proper alignments and calibrations. You _can_ align and calibrate, can you not?" I gave him a numb nod, my head jerking up and down once. "Good. Follow me to the medbay." He executed a precise about face, sending people scurrying from his feet—gone was the caution from earlier—and strolled out of the hangar. "Box nasty" in hand, I trotted after him.

The medbay was actually one of the hangars, connected by a short, but very tall and wide, walkway. I had thought the main hangar to be tricked out with alien technology, but that was nothing compared to this. There were no catwalks as the hangar was set up solely for the Cybertronians' use. Several long, flat tables lined the walls on one half and large machines filled the other. Mechanized hoods hung over each table a few sporting vivid holographic images detailing specifications of their previous patients. The rest held rotating Autobot emblems that shifted through shades of red as they spun in mid-air. Two massive, tubular containers set in the center of a far wall opposite the mech-sized tables. A nest of hoses crawled from the lids and purple tinted ooze slow boiled inside of each. Power cables as thick as my waist snaked out of the bottoms and stretched along the wall ducking into consoles facing perpendicular to the wall behind the containers. Next to one of the consoles was a counter with pieces of armor in different colors and appendages in various stages of disassembly. Opposite this was an open area where Breakaway sat in his alternate mode on the floor.

I full on _gawked_. It was a techie's wet dream and I was standing in the middle of it all. Being a tactical aircraft mechanic, I could definitely appreciate advanced technology. I spun in a slow circle, taking it all in, until I heard the clatter of Ratchet's datapad hitting the counter. Staring up at the medic, I realized my mouth was still hanging wide open. He chuckled at my awestruck admiration and pointed at Breakaway.

"You're here to help him, not drool all over my floor."

My mouth snapped shut and I nodded, turning wide eyes to the tan Autobot. "Brakes," I muttered, trying to recapture my thoughts.

"Brakes," Ratchet repeated, leaning against the counter behind him and folding his arms across his chest.

"Hello, Sergeant Smith!" Breakaway chirped.

"Hi." I glanced back at Ratchet, still leaning against the counter and watching me. Taking a deep breath, I snapped my mind back into my profession. "I have never worked on an F-35 before. I don't really know anything about the brake system. It's a different jet, different center of gravity, different load and weight distribution."

Ratchet bent forward, bringing his hand to my level before flicking his wrist and uncurling his fingers. On his palm lay one of the work tablets we used on the flightline. "Contained within are the specifications for the F-35. I have downloaded the entire maintenance library for this particular model of aircraft from your own military's archives. You should find all that you need to know in here." After I picked up the tablet, Ratchet's hand morphed into a welding tool and he turned to the counter behind him. Sparks immediately began flying as he set to work.

I tilted my head in a sideways shrug and faced Breakaway, thumbing through the information contained within the tablet until I reached the section on brakes. "What was the problem?" It occurred to me this would be both easier and harder now that the jet I was working on could talk to me. A chuckle escaped me at the thought of my own F-16 whining to me about it's problems after each flight.

"My left main brake was dragging on landing."

Peering over the tablet at the jet, I queried, "How often do you land in alt mode? I would think you'd just transform and drop to the ground."

"Oh, usually I do, but when we go on missions around the planet, sometimes I have to stay in disguise. It would be nice to not have to compensate for my left side drifting down the runway on landing."

I snickered. "Yeah, I can see how that would make you uncomfortable."

"Anyway, Ratchet already adjusted it, but he has so much to do, I thought maybe one of you human medics could help me with the fine tuning."

"Okay," I said, "Let's have a look." As I ducked into a wheel well, I remembered my first encounter with this jet. "You know, I'm going to have to touch you in here. Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah. I know what you're doing this time," I could hear the grin in his tone.

"Good. I don't want to get yelled at again."

"I won't yell. I promise."

As I crawled through the jets landing gear, calling out what I was doing before I touched him, he began talking. "You seem pretty tense. Wash said you don't talk much, especially when you first meet new people, but I don't chew."

My eyes went wide, a giggle bubbled out of my nose in an embarrassingly nasal snort. I covered my face for second and corrected him, "_Bite_."

"What?"

"You don't _bite_."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

"No." I smiled broadly, moving to inspect the metal flanges protecting the brake plates inside the wheel.

"Oh. Well, I don't bite, then."

"Good to know."

"I know you're still upset about yesterday, and I hope that doesn't affect how you see the rest of us."

The muscles across my shoulders tensed, and my jaw clenched. Why couldn't everyone just drop it and let me move on in peace? "People have been talking about it all day. I'm just getting _tired_ of hearing about what I nice guy Trailbreaker is and stuff. I don't want to think about it anymore."

The mech continued on, "If it makes you feel any better, Ratchet gave him extra duties for an Earth week. Optimus assigned him double shifts, and Ironhide put him in the brig for the next two solar cycles."

"Wow. I didn't know that." I shrugged, then shook my head. "But that really doesn't make me feel any better."

He hesitated before adding, "Trailbreaker really _is_ sorry for what he did. It was an accident, you know."

A thought struck me—Sideswipe's proffered revenge. I had no intention of taking him up on it, after this revelation, but I was still very curious about the silver Autobot, himself. "Breakaway, I met someone named Sideswipe today."

In a deep register, he demanded, "What did he do?" Well that said it _all_.

"Nothing. Yet. He offered to help me get revenge on Trailbreaker."

"Don't do it!" The entire jet shook with the force of his demand. "Nothing comes for free with Sideswipe! He may _say_ he doesn't want anything in return, but there's _always_ a price."

"I told him I'd think about it, but I really just wanted to get away from him."

Breakaway bounced slightly on his wheels and I jerked my hands back for fear of getting pinched. "You did the right thing. You shouldn't get involved with Sideswipe. He'll get you in trouble."

"Hmm." Changing the subject, I asked, "Ironhide really put Trailbreaker in the brig?"

"Yeah. For two, whole solar cycles."

"That's not very long."

"He's never been in the brig before." Breakaway paused for a second. "Have _you_ ever been in the brig?"

I scrunched my face at him. "_No_, I've never been in the brig!"

"Oh. It's really boring. There's no one to talk to. Nothing to do. You just sit. _Forever_. And _ever_."

And suddenly it clicked. _Sideswipe will get you in trouble._ I couldn't help the snicker. Realizing I'd made the connection, he chuckled. "Bluestreak can tell you more about Sideswipe and the brig. Oh, hey! Did you bring sustenance with you? Is that what's in the box?"

"Yeah," I glanced back at my meal sitting on top of a small tool box Ratchet had supplied. "That's my box nasty."

"Why is it called that? That doesn't sound appealing. I thought humans _liked_ eating."

Smirking into the brake pads I was measuring, I said, "We do. When it's palatable. They're called box nasties because they are pre-packaged sandwiches that are stored on a pallet with all our other gear. By the time we get to eat them they usually taste like whatever they were stored next to. And they're always soggy." I scrunched my face in a sour lemon expression. "Which is gross."

"Sounds gross."

I laughed, "Which part sounds gross to _you_?"

"In truth?" His tone was chagrinned, "All of it." I patted the landing gear strut with one hand, nodding my head in agreement. He drew a deep rush of air into his vents and held it a moment before letting it hiss out. "You're nice to talk to, Sergeant Smith."

Glancing up at the fuselage of the mech's alt mode, I was at a loss for what to say. I smiled at him, wondering if he could "see" that somehow. Gazing down at my work, I said, "That's all I can do for you." The shadow of something not right, caught my eye, "Wait…" Using a penlight, I peered in between the heatshield and the break pad. A small smudge of charcoal grit coated the wheel speed sensor. Tracing the smudge backwards to it's origin, I noticed a tiny bend in the heat shield. "Hey, I got something."

Behind me, the constant crackling of Ratchet's welding abruptly halted. "Let me see," the medic insisted.

Unsure how much of the human palm sized heat shielding he could actually see, I began describing what I had found while pointing to the dent. "Right here. There's the slightest bend in the heat shield." The big bot hmm'ed and I moved my finger to the wheel speed sensor. "Look, the wheel speed sensor is coated with brake dust. The heat shield is bent within limits, but on landing, in a high speed air stream—"

"—It will dig into the brake pad." Ratchet concluded.

"Right." I nodded, looking up into a face that was now a few feet from my own. I jumped a little at the close proximity, but plowed on with the explanation. "When it kicks out all this brake dust, the sensor gets clogged enough to cause problems—"

"—But not enough to trigger errors," Ratchet finished for me. "And that would cause the wheel to drag." He moved back, giving me some space. I suddenly felt like I could breath again, my shoulders dropping from a tensed position I hadn't realized I'd held them in. Watching me for a moment, Ratchet spoke with a note of regard, "You have a good optic for this. That was an impressive find."

"Oh," I blushed under the praise. "We had something similar happen at my last base. Wash and I chased the problem for two years, before finally an engineer came out and showed us what it was."

"It is a mark of a good medic to not only remember these little things, but to learn from them and apply those lessons to other areas."

I just stared at the Chief Medical Officer for a beat, truly humbled. "That—coming from _you_—means a lot to me. Thank you, sir."

He nodded. "You _earned_ the praise." Reaching for his own tools, he began making repairs to the heat shield and, much to my surprise, asked me to assist.

After a while, Breakaway asked, "How did that tiny little piece get bent?"

Shrugging, I said, "Probably hit a pebble on the runway." Watching Ratchet gather up his tools, I turned to the tan mech. "Breakaway, don't you have the Short Take Off Vertical Landing system like a real F-35?"

"First of all, I _am_ a 'real' F-35. And, yes, I am equipped with STOVL. But it burns up far too much energon. I don't use it very often. Inefficient design."

"You do realize that's top of the line in human technology, right?" I couldn't help but chuckle at his inadvertent slight.

"Like I said, _inefficient design,_" he snarked back, still stung by my "real F-35" remark.

"I'll remember that, smart ass." Feeling a bit of childishness was called for here, I stuck my tongue out at the bot. As I had now moved clear of his space, he transformed and mockingly wobbled his head at me from under his cockpit hoodie. I giggled at his silly display, grabbed my meal, and walked toward the door. "If that's all you needed me for, I guess I'll go eat now."

Ratchet glanced my way, saying, "That's all. You're dismissed." I froze, once again reminded that he was a high ranking officer . Proper military protocols would apply here and I had completely disregarded them.

Deflating my pride, I endeavored to correct my mistake. "I'm sorry, Ratchet. I'm a little off balance in this situation." He stopped welding, putting his tools down and turned to give me his full attention. I swallowed hard and pressed on, "How should I address you? I don't even know what your rank structure is."

"I would be equivalent to one of your Majors or Colonels, I suppose. But that's not necessary. You can just refer to me by my name."

"Yes, sir."

He smiled at me. "You are one of the few humans that have extended any of your military courtesies to me. I appreciate that."

My gaze dropped to the floor, "I just hope I haven't accidentally committed any offenses."

"No. Not at all. You should go and refuel now." I turned to leave, but he called me back, "Sergeant Smith. I would like to borrow you occasionally to assist with Breakaway's alt mode. Just minor things. It would allow me to catch up on more important projects."

"Certainly, sir. I'd be glad to help." He nodded again, and I took that to mean I could go.

Leaving the medbay on a high note, I made my way into the main hangar where a break area offered tables and chairs. The shifts had long since changed over and few people were left milling about at this late afternoon hour. Four men in Army ACUs lounged on a couch in front of a large screen TV in a corner underneath one of the catwalks. Three round tables with several chairs each were crowded behind the couch. I picked one furthest from the men and their entertainment, hoping to eat in peace.

Midway into my sandwich, three of the men joined me at the table. "Hey," a broad shouldered Latino sat directly across from me. "Ramirez."

I nodded to him, swallowing before answering, "Smith."

Pointing behind him to a pair of tanned brown headed men that could pass for twins, "Scotch and Kurtz."

Mimicking his manner of introductions, I pointed to my sandwich, "Eating."

He smiled merrily. "We were wondering," I rolled my eyes, it never ends well, when "_we were wondering" _starts a conversation. He continued, "You know that skinny kid working on your jet today? We were all talking with him yesterday about… _someone_," and here his eyes skittered away from my face. I felt my hackles rise immediately. Keeping his attention on my sandwich, he gained courage to go on, "and he didn't seem all that interested in the conversation. So we were thinking maybe he's a little light in the loafers?"

_Oh, boy. Here we go._ I stared at him over my food, elbows on the table. "Are you telling me you think you he doesn't weigh enough?"

He scrunched his face, shot a look over his shoulder at the two standing behind him, and leaned onto the table. "_No_, I mean he's kinda…" Raising one arm, he let his hand flop forward.

I slow chewed for a minute. "You think he's flexible?"

Shaking his head, "No. No." Pointing a finger in my face, he said, "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Look, we were discussing appealing parts of a woman's anatomy and he not only had no input, he seemed put off by the whole thing. That's not normal. That's not right."

_You owe me Wash._ I dropped my sandwich back into the box. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe he didn't want to get in trouble for talking trash about his supervisor? Maybe he just has more class than you three." I leaned back in my seat, lifting my chin and glaring down my nose at the men.

Despite being called out, he never missed a beat, "We have class. We hold class every weekend, you should come sometime. I'll teach you things—_blow you're mind,_ chica!"

"Doubtful. Someone else beat you to it." Gathering up my half eaten meal, I stood to my feet. "And he obviously doesn't kiss and tell."

Ramirez stood and reached across the table to grab my arm, "Wait! Are you telling me you and that kid…?"

Plucking his hand from my offended appendage, I replied, "I wasn't _always_ his supervisor, you know."

With his buddies whooping and cheering, "_Get some!"_ from behind him, he gave me a wolfish grin, "What could that kid possibly have over _this_?" His hands swept down his body, muscles flexed for show.

I glanced over him and sniffed, "Me." My strides could not be long enough or quick enough to carry me out of the hangar. I hated lying about the nature of our relationship, but Wash's preferences put his military career in jeopardy. And we always had each other's backs—_no matter what._ If I had thought the encounter was over, I was sorely mistaken. I was nearly halfway across the hangar, circling around a handful of Autobots gathered in the middle and chatting in their native tongue, when Ramirez hollered to some buddies along the far wall.

"HEY GUYS! THAT SKINNY KID'S SCREWING HIS SUPERVISOR!"

_Oh._

_My._

_God._

Frozen in the center of the hangar, I heard my box nasty hit the floor with a thunk. It was the only sound in the hangar. Even the Cybertronians had ceased their conversation and were now staring at me. Ah, yes. Bug on display. There it is, thought I'd managed to outrun it, but no.

My numb mind was able to begin a mantra, _Must save face, must save face…_ And with that chant propelling me, I rounded on Ramirez. "I'm _not_ screwing Senior Airman Washington!" Way to look even more guilty, Lucci. At this point I began spluttering, "I'm not—who the fuck does that shit?! Who _are_ you?"

Ramirez grinned satisfaction at my disorganized rebuttal. "Who fucks their underlings? _You_ do, apparently." He turned back to his two followers, "That's what she said, isn't it?"

"That's what I heard," they agreed.

Gathering my wits about me, I retaliated, "No, I mean who the fuck yells shit across a hangar after getting the blow off? Who do you think you're impressing? Certainly not me. Those guys over there couldn't care less. And _they_," I waved a hand at the aliens, "are more interested in whether this dives into a fist fight." Cooling my volume a bit, "I really _should_ kick your ass for that shit, but I'd hate to be the reason you lost your place at NEST."

"_What_?" Ramirez shouted back, "How you figure that?"

"Think about it, shit head. When you get your ass handed to you by a _little girl,_" I pointed at the Autobots again, "They damn sure aren't gonna want you out in the field with them!"

He closed the distance between us, "You think you can take me, bitch, give it a shot."

There is no way on God's green Earth, that I could get one strike in on this guy. I knew it. He knew it. Everyone in the room knew it. "I outrank you," I hissed through clenched teeth, "I'm not throwing the first punch and getting jail time."

He glared down his nose at me, "I don't hit _little girls_."

"Funny," I said taking a step back, "I thought that's how you got off!" I turned to the side so all could see, jerked my hand back and forth in front of my crotch and jumped around with my eyes squeezed closed, "¡_Ai_, _niña! ¡Ai, niña! Lo es muy pequeño! ¡Yo lo llamo niña! _" My eyes were closed, so I never saw the fist coming. People came out of the woodwork. I was pulled to my feet and offered a trip to the hospital, a cold compress, and a host of other things that didn't even register. I took the compress and fled the hangar. Ramirez had already been pulled out of the building and was likely getting the riot act thrown at him. But I saved face. _Kinda_.

No sooner did my back hit the metal siding outside then a black Cadillac Escalade pulled to a stop in front of me. I groaned, shifting my weight against the hangar and holding the compress tighter to my face.

"Sergeant Smith? Are you okay?"

Covering my eyes with my hand didn't make Trailbreaker go away, but it was pleasant to pretend for a second. "Leave me alone."

"Last time I saw a human go down that fast they were taking cover from Decepticons."

Oh, irony. You funny bitch. I smirked at the Autobot. "Go away."

"Look, I know I'm the last mech you want to see right now, but I was concerned. I _can_ be concerned, can't I?"

"Be concerned from inside the hangar, how 'bout?" I brushed my hands down the front of my uniform in imitation of how I was trying to brush him off.

Air whooshed through his vents in a mechanoid sigh. "Look. About the other solar cycle, I'm really sorry. I want to make it up to you."

"I don't think that's possible."

"I want to try."

"Just leave me alone." I pressed the fingers of my free hand to my temples. The desert heat was burning against my face despite the cold compress. The mech was silent for a few seconds, and I began to hope he had actually left.

"Breakaway told me—"

"_Fuck,_" I hissed, cutting him off. Sure enough, that shit came back to haunt me. I glared down the ramp toward the F-16s parked in a neat little row. The F-35 was conspicuously absent.

"I didn't know humans could be afraid of heights."

"Learn something new every day," I sneered, refusing to look at him.

"It's just, you're so small. _Everything_ is high to you. I guess it's all a matter of perspective."

"Do you not understand that I want you to leave?"

"Yeah. I… I just wanted to tell you 'I'm sorry' in person. I've never dropped anyone… _before_. There's no punishment that Hide or Prime could dish out that can equal how I've beaten myself up over this. All the what-ifs and regrets. I can't stop thinking if only I… I don't know what."

Listened to me in the first place? Resisted the urge to pick up the human? "I have to leave now," I said, lifting myself off of the hangar siding and walking away from the mech. "I need to get a new phone."


End file.
